


What Was Lost (now is found)

by AngeNoir



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Immortality, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, alternate universe - wild west
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: Geralt has lived a long, long time. He's traveled for an equally long, long time.Stopping in a small little saloon, he is hit with familiar sounds - and a familiar scent. But this man doesn't recognize him, doesn't recognize his name. He has avodounbodyguard, and a guitar. Geralt is almost willing to believe that his mind is playing tricks on him......until dark magic is afoot, and the saloon burns down around them. Geralt isn't sure what's going on, but he's going to do his best to help his friend, even if his friend doesn't remember him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 223
Collections: Ships, Witcher Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for my wonderful, patient artist bookscorpion! The second chapter should be up shortly.

Geralt stepped into the saloon and accepted the momentary quiet that fell over the normally-raucous atmosphere. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was broad, and his clothing—a mix of native clothing and cowboy leathers, all dusty and well-worn. He hadn’t had a lot of good jobs in recent times--many times when there was a ‘monster’ being told tale of in some dusty town, it was in fact more settlers hoping he would clear out or scare away the natives from living on their own land.

Perhaps he should have stayed in Europe—even though it had been wiped clean of much of the supernatural, it was at least not as hot and dusty as it was out here.

...But there was almost no reason to remain there. Most Witchers had died out, disappeared, particularly as the world developed at such a fast rate and forgot the history and the magic that once reigned supreme. Most _monsters_ —true monsters, not what these scared children deemed ‘monsters’—had died out, or disappeared, or slipped into hibernation.

(He and Eskel had stumbled upon such a creature, once, sunk in the depths of the mountains on one of their long rambling walks for something to do when they were bored during the winter in the keep. They had watched the slumbering beast, sweat soaking their leathers from the humid heat so close to the heart of the earth, and then they silently turned and left.)

(Their walks were often a week or so long—no one asked where they had been. Not enough Witchers were still around for the annual wintering in the Wolf Keep to wonder. By silent agreement, he and Eskel never mentioned it again.)

Geralt had lost track of anyone who he might have known—Eskel had traveled East, determined to travel along the Silk Road even though even the blindest peasant could identify the failing trade routes due to instability in the region—and Geralt had suffered silently watching his last link to his past disappear into the sunrise.

Small wonder that, when passage to the New World opened up, Geralt had decided to leave the areas that had been soaked in the martyred god’s blood and people.

(No one had _ever_ accused Geralt of the smartest long-term decision-making abilities.)

He had not expected the sheer level of bloody destruction tearing the country apart, the inhumane treatment of everyone and anyone by the cotton-wool-covered hands of conquerors and rapists.

He should have. He should have realized human nature was the only true monstrous thing in the world.

Here, in this saloon in the middle of nowhere, all he wanted was a hot bowl of stew or soup, some whiskey, and to sleep on something other than tumbleweeds. He cast his gaze over the judgemental and suspicious audience in the room — there were quite a few cowboys, there in the back, all of whom had straightened up when he had walked into the room, dark skin still grey from the dust of the trail. There were a few attractively dressed women scattered about the room, wearing just enough to tantalize—and each carried a small knife at their belts. Closer to the door, furthest away from the rough crowd of the cowboys spread out deeper into the wide room, was a handful of pale-skinned men with watery eyes.

Geralt knew that he could be an imposing figure, particularly with his swords strapped against his back, but he also knew that most of these men had guns and discounted his ability with the sword because of their firearm. It also didn’t help that he _looked_ old—his white hair, after he had it tied back to keep it from his neck during the heat of New Mexico’s summers, provided the illusion of age.

Well. Not really illusion, after all. He was centuries old. He learned the original history of his land, the _new_ history of his land, and the _newer_ history of his land. He was around to watch literal nations disappear and become subsumed into large groups, and for those in turns to fade away like a bad dream.

...Gods above he needed a drink. He only _really_ got maudlin when he’d been too long with alcohol.

With a town name like Cuba, he was fairly sure they wouldn’t have the ale he preferred, but whiskey did in a pinch and so he moved with studied and deliberate casualness to the bar, where the bartender stood, face a blank mask.

He put down some of the last of his coin and husked out, “Food and drink. And a bed, if one’s available.”

Around him, the atmosphere slowly returned to normal—first from the cowboys, who were clearly in town because of the cattle drive and were looking to relax in more comfortable settings than the trail, and then finally from the few people who were clearly from the town, and therefore more suspicious and nervous than cowboys who were used to dealing with rustlers and secure in their ability to protect themselves.

The bartender glanced down at the coin and then up at him. “Don’t see very many around here with hair like yours on a body like yours.”

It wasn’t a question, and so Geralt felt no obligation to reply—instead, he motioned to a table that was equidistant from the back and the front, but set closer to a window and therefore further from the bar.

The bartender inclined their head and Geralt wandered over. His swords drew some more looks, but they distracted from the small pistol he carried under his arm, and he knew that it was unlikely that anyone would really try and approach him—not when the townsfolk were most likely here without their wives knowing, and not when the cowboys were here for a good time and not to start fights. It was the one benefit, he found, to these small little towns in the States. Unlike his history, where the county pub was frequented by all and everyone felt camaraderie with everyone else, leaving him the odd man out, the States were oddly and specifically Puritanical and severe with men who spent their time in saloons and drinking halls, and so overall men with wives did not broadcast they went, and it was the men without wives you had to watch out for.

...Except, of course, the cowboys. They were their own breed, with their own partnerships, and while rowdy and raucous, Geralt had never had any problem with them.

He sat down—not directly with his back to the wall, in order to keep other men from automatically assuming he was a threat and acting accordingly, especially since having his back to the wall was for the most part unnecessary. The cowboys in the back were many, but they were also loud, which meant for the most part happy and content and carefree. The few others there that he would normally worry about were few enough, and not behind him, so he wasn’t worried.

And he was just tired. He was tired of… of the desert, of the heat, of the empty life he had carved out. He had thought he would find something interesting in life in this new country, but it had been over two hundred years and he had only seen more and more misery.

A young woman brought the food over, scantily-clad in a way that invited further spending of coin, but as it stood Geralt had not the coin nor the inclination; he nodded respectfully, and she left him alone with the food.

There was a rise of noise, and then the strumming of some stringed-instrument—it was familiar enough that he looked up at the back of the room, where the crowd were beginning to sing along.

_ “It’s your misfortune, and none of my own. Yippee Ki Yi Yo, get along, little dogies…” _

A cacophony of voices clashed, on- and off-key, but Geralt had very sharp ears. One voice stood out among the rest.

Almost unthinking, ignoring the dregs of the stew that he had been sopping up with the mostly stale, hard bread, he stood up, slowly approaching the group. The outer ring of dusty, dirty cowboys looked up, regarding him suspiciously, and in some distant part of his mind he recognized that, but his gaze was locked on a shorter, slighter man in the center, clean-shaven and with a hauntingly familiar voice.

The man, noticing the silence and change in environment around him, looked up, and those gray-green eyes blinked uncomprehendingly up at Geralt.

“... Jaskier?” Geralt asked, voice a hoarse whisper.

More blinks, and then confusion. The nearest man to the singer leaned forward, black eyes glinting and teeth flashing bright in the almost pitch-dark face. “I think you mean _Jasper_ , sir,” the man said, voice deceptively mild and gentle for all the violence in those coiled muscles. He looked as if he could easily lift Geralt over his head if need be, and clearly was protective of the slighter, much paler male.

It was Jaskier, Geralt was sure of it—the scent was identical, the pitch of voice, the body shape and type and form… but the man showed no recognition in his face. No comprehension.

It had been almost five hundred years since Geralt had seen the bard last. He wasn’t called a ‘bard’ anymore—a musician, or an entertainer.

…In one case, even a jester.

But Jaskier’s defender called him _Jasper_.

And Jaskier’s eyes have no recognition, no spark of brightness, of the smile that Jaskier always had for Geralt. Jaskier has nothing for Geralt but confusion, and uncertainty.

So Geralt shakes his head minutely, and angles his body away. “My apologies,” he said quietly. “You reminded me of… a friend I had lost, a long time ago. I thought I had found them.”

Some level of relief appeared in Jaskier—in _Jasper’s_ —eyes, and he smiled easily, that same lopsided smirk that Geralt… had missed. “No worries, friend! I do hope you find your friend, in the future.”

The other man didn’t stop staring at him, but _Jasper_ smiled and returned to strumming the… not a lute. Something similar, though. It looked like a lute, with a slightly changed shape to the body.

Geralt bowed his head and turned around. The scent of cowboys that had been on the trail for so long was heavy and cloying, thick and unpleasant, but Jaskier’s scent was _there_. He knew it. He knew it in his very bones and he didn’t know why Jaskier— _Jasper_ —didn’t recognize him, but now wasn’t the time.

He went back to his table and stared at the remains of his meal, almost thoughtlessly raised his cup to his lips to drink down the last drops. Why here? Why now?

Jaskier had disappeared. Well, perhaps ‘disappeared’ was too strong a word—during the world’s changes, the wars that had torn apart and dissolved many of the kingdoms they had known, Jaskier had angered two of the new courts by upholding and retelling the stories of the past kingdoms and conquered peoples, and had moved steadily south, looking for ‘fairer faces and fairer weather, Geralt!’ They had always promised to meet again, when the political climate turned and those that sat on the throne had had time to forget past misdeeds, but though Geralt had searched—as much as one could, in the spread out and disparate lands and villas that dotted the wilds—he had never once gotten close to Jaskier. He had hoped, in his darkest nights, that Jaskier yet lived, that Jaskier had not met with the unsavory end that seemed to await a bard that shared his bed wide and far, but he had worried. He knew that old age would not claim Jaskier—not with how long Jaskier had traveled with Geralt, and the only change time had wrought upon the bard was an increase in stories, in drinking stamina, and in cloth finery.

Geralt had known, from first meeting Jaskier, that the bard had not been entirely human. It had taken him more than a few years of being around the bard, of slowly falling into friendship with the most unlikely of companions, before he managed to pinpoint exactly what blood Jaskier sported.

Unlike Geralt, who had been mutated and changed from his humanity through potions, trials, and strict discipline, Jaskier had been born almost— _almost_ —full-blooded vila. That meant he was not only immortal, but he could in fact bewitch people with his voice if he tried. (Geralt had teased, on numerous occasions, that that was the only reason being a bard had turned profit for Jaskier. Jaskier had thrown pinecones, twigs, and, on one memorable occasion, a snake at him, pouting in that ridiculous way of his, and only brightened up when Geralt relented and asked Jaskier to sing something before they retired that evening.)

Full-blooded vila could transform into an animal—normally a swan, but almost always with wings. They could not be killed except with silver or with fire. Full-blooded vila were also almost exclusively female-bodied, regardless of how they identified, and Jaskier oft expressed how grateful he was that he in fact had a cock and not a cunt between his legs while deep in his cups many a time. He claimed that, had he a cunt instead of a cock, vila were also fairly fertile and often changeling children were the result of a vila taking a sickly babe and depositing the child they did not want in the nursery. He also put much store in his dick, and claimed that he was skilled enough with it that he knew no one would complain with his wielding.

( _‘Even… ‘ven if I ended up w’ no dick, Geralt, would you help me find one?’_

_ ‘You’re drunk. I thought you said no one could get drunk on this pig’s swill.’ _

_ ‘Yer grumpy. But yer a’ways grumpty so who cares. Would you help me find a dick?’ _

_ ‘You can’t even find your own dick in the state you’re in.’ _

_ But when Geralt had manhandled the bard onto the bed, forcing some stale bread into the man’s stomach, and Jaskier’s eyes had slipped closed, Geralt had brushed hair from that pale, pale forehead and murmured, ‘I’d help you, Jaskier. Of course I would.’) _

When it had come down to it, Geralt had assumed it was because male vila were always sterile, unable to father sons. Jaskier had desperately wished for parental care in his childhood, had come to Geralt despondent and in black moods because an attempt to reconnect with his dam or sire had been rebuffed or ignored. Jaskier did not want to risk bringing into the world a child he may not know of, and that would suffer from Jaskier’s travels in the same way Jaskier had suffered, alone and without parental love, as an adolescent.

But this person spoke with the faintest of accents that Geralt could trace back to Temeria—now known as the Russian Empire. This person called himself Jasper, but even as Geralt stared blankly at his cup, he broke into a ‘song from the old world’—a story that had been much changed in the making, but that Geralt could recognize as a very new rendition of a Cintran lullaby-turned-ballad.

He could not stay here, and puzzle this out. He was tired from the road, his heart ached at the hope that had settled in his chest and then been quashed so ruthlessly, and his eyes burned from the smoke of the fire and the oddest sensation of pressure at the corners.

He stood, pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and went to the barkeep to receive a key to a room. He did not ask for a bath—did not think there was enough fresh water around to ask, at that, and certainly did not have enough energy to lug the water himself, nor enough coin to pay for that luxury—and ascended the stairs.

The music of the room haunted him all the way down the hall.

\- - -

In the middle of the night, Geralt sat up from the bought bed, ears quivering and sniffing the air. There was something… _burning_.

Faintly, he could still hear breathing, the soft whispers of rest, the louder rumbles of sleeping. He leapt to his feet, grabbing his pack and throwing open the door.

With the door open, the licking and crackling of a fire was suddenly much louder, and he waited a moment to get his bearings before banging on the doors nearby, one heavy fist knocking frantically as he made his way down the line. “Fire!” he shouted, shouldering his pack and making his way to the closest stairway. “Wake, the inn! Fire!”

Thumps and shouts answered his call, and doors began opening. He reached the stairs and looked down.

The fire was thick, smoke heavy, but it looked like a clear enough path—and Geralt was not about to leap through the wall unless he absolutely had to, especially when there was panicked noises enough from around him. He had to get to his horse, get his belongings a safe distance, and then do his best to quell the fire with the other patrons.

It didn’t take him long to rush outside—the fire was still spreading, and much of the bar was in flames. Once those bottles crashed or cracked, the saloon would _definitely_ go up in flames that much quicker.

The inn was, thankfully, untouched as of the moment—he grabbed as many horses as he could pull, led them all out as quickly as he could, taking them across the street and tying them up as fast as he could.

People were pouring out of the inn now, some half-dressed, quite a few naked women clutched against the arms of different cowboys. Geralt, tying off the last horse, didn’t see Jaskier, and his heart beat frantically as he dashed back to the inn, grabbing a bucket and dunking it into the horse trough to grab some water, snatching some horse blankets and soaking them for the briefest of moments before throwing them at the nearest people. “Beat out the fire!” he ordered, crossing the threshold and nearly getting run over by the rest of the people—including Jaskier.

Relieved, he splashed the bucket over the bar as best as he could, since the alcohol would be disastrous if it actually caught on fire.

Returning back outside, he joined the line to put the fire out, upending buckets and using the soaked blankets to beat out the small sparks.

As he moved, he could hear mutters from the cowboys, whispers—“…musta put a hat down wrong, sommun musta. Too much bad luck, too many horses goin’ lame an’ cattle gettin’ lost…”

It was backbreaking work, and the dark sky was bright, the tip of the sun winking over the horizon, before the fire was out. Geralt had woken up in time to make sure that they saved the nearby buildings, and even most of the inn, though the furniture was completely burned out. The floors were definitely scarred and sagging, the walls charred and flaking, and Geralt wouldn’t trust the structure to hold for people walking up the stairs to the floors above to sleep.

But no one died. Everyone was alive, no one was injured past coughing from the smoke and ash, and the horses had been pulled away enough to prevent them from panicking badly enough to stampede—always a risk, with cattle stationed nearby the town and the horses always skittish when it came to flames. Overall, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Though the mutters from the cowboys let Geralt know that something was up. That—and the scent of dark magic.

Magic, though not as prevalent any longer in the world with the advent of iron and silver into the world, was still feared and regarded with healthy suspicion. The native magics of this land, and the supernatural creatures that preyed upon this land, had taught Geralt a healthy respect. He’d done his best to learn as much of the native languages as he could, and the native nations—though they regarded him as unclean, a creation that was an abomination to the natural order and what the Creator had made, understood he was useful and had taught him… enough. Enough to get by, enough to destroy what he needed to when he was hired in different situations. Enough to protect himself, those nights he spent out under the open sky with Roach.

(Roach, a beautiful, stocky roan mare, was absolutely unconcerned with the supernatural but worried herself silly over shadows and shifting light. She wasn’t… _flighty_ , but she was certainly excitable.)

So when he heard of the run of bad luck the cowboys were chewing over, he considered meeting Jaskier here, the scent of dark magic rising from the back of the room where the cowboys had sat the night before, and the lack of recognition in Jaskier’s face. And he wondered.

For the most part, now that the sun was stretching its rays over the horizon and across the land, it was already heating up and making the air hot and heavy. The women that had come out undressed had found blankets or shifts to cover their modesty, and the undressed men had managed to pull together shirtsleeves that could, at the very least, provide decency. But to a one, everyone sat empty-eyed and exhausted, shoulders and heads bowed as the air began to swelter. The barkeep and owner stood before the charred building, arms folded, his suspenders slack against his thighs, clicking his tongue in just his stockings. The women he… employed, they huddled around, some of them on the nearby porch of the general store.

The cowboys, they were a wider range. Many of them were shirtless, indecent in the morning light but showing no thought to care. Others were dressed and ready to go, if sweaty and weary from the night’s work. Jaskier, singed in part, still had his instruments, though his pack was missing. Jaskier’s bodyguard from the night previous leaned against Jaskier’s shoulder, looking for all the world as if he was dead asleep and worn out.

“You alright?” Geralt asked before he could help himself.

The bodyguard’s eyes flickered, but Jaskier smoothed a hand down the man’s arm, and smiled tiredly up at Geralt. “As well as could be expected, good sir. Zounds, but thank the god above that you caught the fire afore it could spread and cook us all in our beds.”

Geralt squatted down beside the two, where they perched on the porch of the bank across the street from the inn. “In truth, it was mere luck. The scent, more than anything… memories are not kind, and they stir up too many.”

Behind those green eyes flickered curiosity, interest. Jaskier leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Memories?”

Good to see that, while Jaskier perhaps could not remember Geralt, his personality remained the same. “I’ve been… in many wars, and seen many things not best mentioned in polite company, under the day’s light. But yes. Seems as if many around believe it is one thing in a series of bad luck and ill will following them around.”

The interest in Jaskier’s eyes died, and he looked far older, as if he was his true age and not his immortal face. “Aye, that is true. Bad luck and poisoned wells have followed this cattle train for too long. I can only hope that their luck changes for the good. As for me, I think I have traveled with them and peddled my songs and expertise for long enough. I will move on, perhaps with a trail returning to the ranches in Texas, and give word to my prayers that no more ill wishes falls upon these innocent, hardworking men.”

That… was telling, indeed, that Jaskier would count himself the reason or the cause of what was happening. Or rather, Jaskier would assume that his moving on would change anything that had befallen the cowboys. There were plenty of them from the old country, with old roots. Many of them had clear links back to the _vodoun_ in Africa, or the Celts, and even a few had the scent of _bruja_ about them. The West was a dumping ground for those not commonly accepted in polite society, and with how this nation had rejected anything that wasn’t Saxon of origin, it was little wonder that magic users congregated to do the harshest, hardest jobs in the South and West that were available. And yet here stood Jaskier, with nothing to mark him other and no history in his eyes, protected and guarded by one who had the scent of animal bones and blood on him, who had small markers to indicate an active practitioner of _vodoun_.

“I would like to travel with you.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized he had the intention to say them, and the protector roused at that, sitting upright with fire licking out from his glare, even as Jaskier looked at him oddly.

“We don’t need _asasen chase_ haunting our steps!” the other man snarled. “We have enough problems as it is without bringing one like _you_ along for the trip!”

“Now, now, Emmanuel,” Jaskier murmured, brow furrowed. “You have to admit, with him around it is more likely we will live to see the morrow.”

The burly man—Emmanuel, apparently—turned to Jaskier. “You cannot invite in a killer and think anything but death will haunt our steps. So far we’ve been lucky, no serious injuries, nothing unfixable. You bring in a murderer, you escalate the issue.”

It hit a little too close to how he had first met Jaskier, the bard calling him by his true title, the one he had not yet managed to shake from those who knew him and knew his past. A Butcher he had been once, and a Butcher he was now, and those around who knew his profession could see it.

But he could not allow Jaskier to just go, not when there was something here. Some danger, some instinct, that whispered in the back of Geralt’s mind. The first truly interesting thing he had seen in, oh, almost four hundred years, if he thought about it. The first puzzle that made little sense, around a man who made less sense and his guard.

And a friend, a lost friend that Geralt might still be able to regain should he just manage to identify what had happened, these past nine hundred or more years.

“You can’t be serious, Jasper,” Emmanuel protested. “We only just got out of one bad mess. You would create another?”

Jaskier shrugged, a little shamelessly, with a hint of that casual indolence that had once annoyed Geralt and had certainly put Jaskier in ill favor with many a ruler. “Perhaps we are the bad mess that he is inviting into his life, what do you think of that, Emmanuel?”

“I say your superstition is going to get us killed one of these times,” Emmanuel growled, standing up. On his feet, he was much taller and broader than Geralt, a tree of a man, his dark skin only slightly marred by the thin scars that indicated a whipping and torture that so often the people of this country afforded those of a different skin color. He leaned into Geralt’s face, white teeth flashing and dark eyes heavy. “If you bring harm to us, know that I have no issues making people—even _asasen chase_ like you—disappear from the face of the earth,” he hissed, voice sibilant and deadly, and then he stalked away. Geralt watched him go, mildly curious at the behavior. He knew and expected, of course, the reception someone who carried silver and iron swords would receive, but the response seemed… a bit extreme.

“Emmanuel has been looking after me for some time,” Jaskier said on a yawn. “He and I go very far back.”

Before Geralt could question the decisions his brain was making, he was asking, “Oh? How far back?” Then he bit his tongue, upset at the jealousy that was twisting his heart and running away with his thoughts before he could corral them into manageable order.

If Jaskier noticed Geralt had not intended to speak, he was good at acting otherwise. “Oh… as far back as I can remember,” he said dismissively. “Five… years? Perhaps?”

Five years was… a short time to claim that that was the farthest one could remember. Geralt couldn’t help but sharpen his gaze on Jaskier, even as he said mildly, “Five years can be a lifetime, sometimes. But it can also be just a blink in one’s life. Forgive me for saying, but it looks like five years would be a significant portion of your life.”

Jaskier laughed, leaning back. “You would think I’m so young that five years would take up so of my life? No, I must be…” he squinted, and distress flashed across his face for the briefest of moments before he smoothed away the worry. “Easily older than you think.”

At the very least, Geralt was getting the clues he needed—not that he knew how to put them together into a cohesive whole at the moment, but he was getting there. Jaskier knew something was up, knew that he should remember more than he did. He was aware he was older than his young face suggested. He was aware that there was something darker at work…

…though that could just be normal superstition. Geralt had found more than a few wanderers with the strangest beliefs and superstitions.

But how did Jaskier come to be here, in this New World? What lingered around him, that he believed he was the cause of the bad luck? And who was Jaskier’s protector—clearly a _vodoun_ practitioner of medium to high level skill, to speak with the confidence he had earlier?

Well. Sticking around for some time ought to give him _some_ answers, at the very least.

“By the way, good sir, you have me at an advantage—you know my name, and my companion’s. May I have the pleasure of knowing yours?”

Geralt’s heart caught in his throat. “Ah—Geralt,” he answered, voice hoarser than he expected it to be.

For a moment—for a brief, shining second—it looked as if there was something akin to recognition, to comfort, in those grey-green eyes. Then it flashed, and Jaskier was smiling emptily at him. “Geralt, no last name? Very well, Mister Geralt. I’m afraid we’re not much for traveling companions, but you’re welcome to tag along on our way back to Texas.”

Swallowing his disappointment—he knew, he _knew_ he should not have expected overmuch—Geralt inclined his head. “I need to restock my supplies while we’re here, but I can be ready to go before noon today.”

“We’ll be heading down that road, if we leave ahead of you,” Jaskier pointed out. “Though Emmanuel had mentioned stopping by the butcher for some fresher meat and replenishing our own stock while we had access to a store.”

Geralt inclined his head, and made his way back to Roach.

He’d figure this out. He just needed the time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this wasn't supposed to be this long, but tropical storms and electricity / internet don't mix very well x.x

“Do you travel the cattle trails often?” Geralt asked.

Emmanuel sneered at him, turning his back and stoking the fire on the meager kindling they had found out on the trail.

Perhaps Geralt should have kept to their unspoken truce—they had traveled the whole day in almost complete silence. ‘Almost complete silence’ because Jaskier could not stay silent to save his life; he strummed the instrument (not a lute; some Spanish variant. Cithara? Sithar?) and hummed, fit words into tunes, remarked upon the heavy grey clouds gathering in the sky, clucked at his horse, chided Geralt and Emmanuel for being so silent…

It was so achingly familiar that Geralt had feared to disrupt it, to bother anything or upset the balance. It had been so long since he had had that comfort of words and companionship that it was no hardship to keep his own counsel and not annoy Emmanuel.

Still, that was no way to solve the problem as to why Jaskier could not recall his own name. For that, he’d need information, and any level of knowledge that Jaskier or Emmanuel held.

So. Talking, even if Emmanuel had preferred to try and forget about Geralt’s presence.

“Often enough. Wherever I can make coin, honestly. Emmanuel is an excellent cowhand, and I have some skill in the way of wounds and medicine, for animal and human alike,” Jaskier said easily enough.

“And you, master killer?” Emmanuel bit out, looking over his shoulder to glower at Geralt. “Do you travel cattle trails often?”

Perhaps it was petty, but… “Often enough,” Geralt replied laconically. “There are a great number of beasts that see the slow-moving herds as easy prey.”

Emmanuel hissed like a wet cat and stood up. That scent of _other_ , of _danger_ , rose in the air—and then Jaskier strummed the guitar a bit, sitting cross-legged on the ground by his pack, and Emmanuel ground his teeth, turned on his heel, and disappeared off into the twilight dark.

Jaskier seemed… unwilling to speak, humming to himself as he plucked the strings gently, but Geralt felt… bad? Certainly not comfortable. He cleared his throat and picketed Roach before pulling his pack off of Roach’s back. “I did not mean to offend.”

With a heavy sigh, Jaskier waved a hand negligently. “Emmanuel believes I need a minder. Of course, I haven’t proven very well otherwise, so I cannot blame him for his protectiveness. But he has been with me… for a long time.”

“Five years, you said,” Geralt murmured.

Again that faint note of distress, of pain, crossing Jaskier’s face, and then he was smiling again. “Well. That seems long. I have… memory issues. Emmanuel helps me. The furthest back I can remember is… oh, five summers back? I think? Time is… soft, for me. It is sometimes hard to keep everything in place.” Jaskier cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to the neck of his instrument. “Emmanuel teases that I would lose my head if it were not attached, and I have to say I believe him.”

Geralt frowned. Amnesia? Or was this the age-sickness that sorcerers had studied, that Geralt had come to know as an old friend, when the years of one’s life weighed down the mind and slowed responses?

Impossible to tell. But there was dark, blood magic at work last night at the inn, from the same area that Jaskier had been, and Emmanuel was clearly a fairly decent practitioner of _vodoun_. There was no such thing as being too careful.

“Should I go find our traveling companion?” Geralt asked as he sat down on the rocky, dusty ground, pulling out the small cookpot for the dried beans and jerky. A splash of water into the pot, and a quick suspension over the fire, and they would soon have some meat and beans after their long journey.

Jaskier glanced in the direction Emmanuel went—squinting, since, by now, the sun had truly dropped below the horizon and darkness claimed the land fast—and shook his head. “No, he knows the where we are. He sometimes needs time alone, I expect. I know I can be a lot to handle.”

Those last words were said almost mockingly, twisted down against the speaker, and before Geralt could think he was shaking his head. “You are never too much to handle,” he said gruffly. “You are a good friend, and a better companion.”

Jaskier regarded him steadily from across the fire, fingers dancing lightly against the strings, the faintest of tunes humming in the air around them like the smoke that curled up into the sky. “You know,” Jaskier said quietly, “I have the oddest feeling that I know you. I also have the oddest feeling that I ought to be vexed with you, though the devil knows why. I know my hunches have gotten Emmanuel and myself into enough trouble already, but I hope to find out why you look at me like you are made whole again, and why I know things I should not about you—like your whetstone is in that pocket, and you are about to care for your swords more thoroughly than you ever care for your own body.”

Geralt paused in his movements—for he had, in fact, been reaching into his belt-pouch for the sword oil and whetstone, and looked intently at Jaskier.

With an absent shrug, Jaskier looked up, at the infinite stars spread out like dewdrops in the crushed velvet of the sky. “Not much good the information does me. But while my hunches have almost always gotten us in trouble…” Now, a hint of playfulness, of the wickedness and mischief Geralt remembered so clearly, entered Jaskier’s voice, “Well, even though we’ve gotten into trouble, we’ve never had a dull moment, and we’ve always scrambled our way out again, so what do I have to complain about?”

With that, he began picking out another odd tune against the Spanish instrument, and Geralt sat a moment longer, contemplating his swords as he absently ran over them with the whetstone and the cloth.

Then he stood up. “Don’t let the food burn, Jas—Jasper. I’m going to go water a cactus.”

“The cactus will thank you, I’m sure,” Jaskier said dryly, still moving his fingers nimbly over the metal strings.

Geralt strode out into the darkness. Emmanuel might be upset, but he also was the only solid clue Geralt had in regards to Jaskier and what had taken place five (or more, or less) years ago.

Emmanuel, it seemed was chanting under his breath underneath the darkness of the sky, the scent of blood sharp and fresh, if slight. If something died for his ritual, it must have been small—a lizard, or a mouse.

“What do you want?” Emmanuel asked, voice deeper and darker with power as he sat like obsidian stone in the center of the dark desert, hands palm-up and legs crossed loose and flat against the rough sand.

“I want to know what is going on with you and Jas—Jasper.”

“You were about to call him by another name. Again,” Emmanuel commented, voice sharp.

Geralt sighed. “I was. If you knew what I knew, you would know that I am not wrong, and this name you have given me is—”

“ _Necessary_ ,” Emmanuel cut in, biting the word off like a wolf snapping at a bone, as he stood up and turned to face Geralt. “It is _necessary_ for Jasper to have this identity, to be separate, because he chose this and this choosing is not one I would take from him.”

Geralt paused. The wording of that was… strange. Multiple magics required specific wording and phrasing to work, so if something had happened that had created this… for lack of better word, _spell_ on Jaskier…

“Is calling him by his true name the way of breaking whatever prevents him from remembering?” Geralt tried.

“No!” Emmanuel growled. “You don’t understand, and I have no reason to explain. Whatever you are, you aren’t _human_ and you wouldn’t understand the protections I have in place!”

Geralt paused, and reevaluated everything he saw in light of Emmanuel’s words. “You’re… protecting him?”

“The fool man stepped in and redirected a spell he should not have, put his nose where it did not belong!” Emmanuel growled. “He put his life on the line for me, and we have traveled ever since, looking for a way to undo what has been done.”

Stunned by this new information, Geralt could do nothing but stare, blinking at the dark shape before him—but the silence must have put Emmanuel off, or made it seem like Geralt was judging, because Emmanuel continued hotly, “You kill problems, and remove them from the equation. You have no balance in the world! I know your kind well—you are not the only _witcher_ I have come across, Geralt, and you will, unfortunately, not be the last! You come for money and stay until you’re sure something is dead. I watched my brothers and sisters _die_ at the hands of a witcher, and while I will not and cannot override Jasper’s choices, I will do my _best_ to prevent you from hampering the protections I have in place!”

“I—I understand,” Geralt said, stammering it out, still trying to corral his thoughts into something other than a whirlwind. “I apologize—”

“Why _are_ you here? What do you gain for following along after him?” Emmanuel pressed, stalking forward to get into Geralt’s space.

Geralt did not flinch, didn’t move, didn’t back up. Emmanuel was a head taller than him, and was clearly used to protecting Jaskier. Since that was Geralt’s goal as well, and he now understood Emmanuel’s goals were aligned with his own, it was easier to not take offense… especially since he knew the reputation witchers had in this new continent.

“I can tell he needs help. I knew him, once, and I did not treat him… well. We met back up afterwards, and I was not… we kept on. We ignored my treatment, and though I tried to show by actions my… remorse, I was never got better at words.”

Emmanuel stared him down, and while Geralt knew that, practically speaking, it was unlikely that Emmanuel had the same night vision that witchers claimed, he also knew that the different spirits of the _vodoun_ practice could grant different powers and skills to those that were closely cared for and protected by their followers.

After a long moment, Emmanuel huffed and twisted, shoving his shoulder into Geralt’s, knocking Geralt back a step. “Witchers are _asasen chase_. You have those swords, and you look to use them in every scenario. You never consider other options.”

Geralt was beginning to think it was more and more likely that some of the Cat school had made it to this continent. Though why… they normally followed political intrigue and drama, and didn’t actually go where there wasn’t any money and reward…

Emmanuel walked back to the campsite, the little flicker of light extremely visible and vivid against the now thick darkness that pressed against on all sides. Geralt watched him go, trying to piece together the different small clues he had gotten from Emmanuel’s words.

And things were making… more sense. The _vodoun_ practice was looked down upon by many, primarily because its roots were in the deep of Africa but it pulled and twisted some of the European traditions. Oh, not literally—it was a closed tradition, it was unique to itself, but it incorporated the Europeans’ fears of witchcraft and “traditional” evil. If Emmanuel was a _vodoun_ practitioner of any merit, he would have kept it secret from everyone—but dark magic, blood magic, had a way of seeping out. Yennefer had stunk of blood and death, of pain and loss. Every sorcerer he had ever encountered had had that stench on them. _Vodoun_ practitioners had that same death-scent.

Which, of course, meant that anyone even slightly alert and sensitive to magic and magical practices would be able to sense it. Emmanuel had probably been noticed by his peers and fellow citizens, just for the sense of uneasiness that emanated from his person due to the magic and pantheon that touched their life. If Emmanuel had eventually gotten in trouble…

Geralt could see Jaskier, passing by, getting involved. Jaskier talked big, pretended as if he had no one’s interest at heart except his own, but he was soft. He cared for others, tried to make the world around him better.

If he saw Emmanuel against a wall, he would have interfered. Or, gods above, if Jaskier had gotten in trouble and Emmanuel saw that, perhaps Emmanuel had been getting _Jaskier_ out of trouble and tried to interfere.

That didn’t explain what type of spell would require a renaming. Spells, curses, or any offensive magics didn’t require a _name_ , they required something of the person—hair, nails, blood, spit. Something that linked directly to the person. Sometimes even a scent or well-loved object would do. The naming meant this was a magical practice Geralt was unfamiliar with, and probably couldn’t fix.

He would definitely have to get more information, and he somehow had to corner Emmanuel—someone with a clear grudge against witchers, and in general, Geralt couldn’t blame him for that stereotype—without Jaskier around. If the magic was that sensitive to a name, it also most likely would react if they spoke about it.

Maybe. Geralt was working off of suppositions. He needed more answers, needed clearer understanding of what exactly happened.

And he needed to prove, somehow, that those from the Wolf school were nothing like those from the Cat school.

Though, knowing the Cats, it would be hard to erase whatever they managed to do to Emmanuel.

\- - -

“You can’t keep on going like this.”

“I damned well can,” Emmanuel growled.

“It’s not bothering me,” Geralt added.

Jaskier turned around on his tiny pinto gelding, glowering at them. “You are going to get along if I have to drag your tolerance out, kicking and screaming.”

“You don’t know his kind,” Emmanuel snapped.

Geralt shrugged. “He has reasons to fear my profession and until I can prove otherwise—”

Emmanuel turned on his bay mare to give an incredulous stare to Geralt. “Did you—did you just say I’m _scared_ of you?”

Geralt sucked at his teeth, and clicked at Roach to pick up the pace a little.

“No, I asked you a question, you queer eyed mutant abomination!” Emmanuel called.

“Well, that’s definitely not very nice, Emmanuel,” Jaskier said disapprovingly.

Emmanuel sputtered, and Geralt smirked to himself as Roach cantered her way forward. They were close to the next town, a small outpost more than anything, and once there they could restock their water and food supplies. Perhaps have a place to sleep that wasn’t Jaskier’s too-familiar snores were on one side, and suspicious, dark eyes glowered at him on the other.

This town was also close to the Dine territory, and if the same raiding group was around, he could try to get in touch with Billy—his name was much longer, though Geralt could remember the shortened form, Atsa—and Billy might have an idea on how to identify the magic and problem with Jaskier. He and Billy had gotten along pretty well, last time, even if they had first met under more… aggressive circumstances.

“Why won’t you at least _try_ to get along?”

Emmanuel let out a sigh, and Geralt could almost feel his ears pricking up, his attention focused on the “soft” conversation behind him. Without his mutations, he wouldn’t have been able to hear more than the soft murmurs, wouldn’t be able to pick out individual words. But he was a witcher, and all of that, good and bad, remained with him. Tugging his hat lower over his eyes, he let them fall half-shut as he concentrated on the talk further back.

“I… did not tell you, much. I did not tell you how I came to be in that alleyway, or how they had managed to corner me. Hell and tarnation, you didn’t even know why they were after me.”

Jaskier laughed that high, quicksilver laugh that Geralt remembered. “I was drunk, and looking for a fight.”

“You were stone-cold sober and you had a sword that cut through men like they were paper. But I was alone in that city a long time, and you were the first person to bestir themselves for me. I had fought for the Union. I had given my blood and my effort and my energy and years of my life, only for them to turn their back when it got too political, when it was too hard for them to make the changes they had promised. Me, and my brothers, and my sister—I was the only one left, and I had pinned my hopes to the promises made by Union generals, and they turned around when it was convenient to them. They took away General Butler and with him went some of the last protections for people that looked like me.”

Geralt dared not turn, but he could hear Jaskier’s quick intake of breath, could hear Jaskier’s temperamental gelding huff and mutter—from tightened reins? From a stiffer seat? From tension in the legs?

He wished he could see their faces, read more from just their words. Humans lied, all the time, but they rarely thought to lie with their bodies.

“Witchers killed my family, Jasper. Down to the babe in the crib—I survived by pure luck. Chance. I had snuck away to another cabin, visiting… oh, it’s been a long time, and I dare not speak her name aloud. She’s in a better place now, I hope. But my family’s cabin… my mother was a priestess, powerful and strong. She had no say in much of her children, or their lives, but she had a say in her religion and she made the old bastard nervous. When his crops started coming in poor, and the pigs began disappearing, and the chickens stopped laying… he hired two witchers. Claimed there was dark magic in the cabins, and he was right. We always practiced what we wanted. They could chain our limbs but they couldn’t chain our thoughts, and we were on one of the oldest plantations, tracing our line back to Haiti, back to Africa. We had some stories still left to us of our mother country, some traditions still passed down in hushed whispers.”

There was dead silence, just the rustle of brush against the legs of horses, the small twitches of nose and breathing that their three mounts regularly did. It seemed like Jaskier was holding his breath—and it seemed like Emmanuel could not breathe.

“I… I know his kind. We call them _asane chose_ —the hunter killers. They are out of balance with the world. They were wrought by human hands and twisted magics. They have no soul left in their body, their spirits passed on long ago. You cannot expect me to make peace with a creature such as that.”

Geralt could fill in the empty spots—it was a point of contention he had brought up, more than once, with more than one of the other schools of witchers. If the source of the problem was supernatural—but the one making the problem was human… who did witchers serve?

Once, witchers served human masters. They were sponsored by kingdoms, and children were given as tribute to swell the ranks. Long, long ago… almost a millennium, maybe more… the profession of witcher had been a necessity. Humans had no protection against the beasts that roamed the woods, haunted the nights. Witchers were the result of sorcerers twisting and forming human bodies into specialized shapes.

Did they have souls?

Geralt had always wondered, himself.

But he could guess what had happened, in those slave cabins. He could imagine a witcher scenting the same dark magic that clung to _vodoun_ practitioners and decide to exterminate the problem. Too, he could see the witcher being uncaring of any types of constraints or rules the master would put on them, and choosing the easiest path—instead of identifying the source of the curse, simply eliminating all those that had claim to the practice or could one day claim the practice through their inheritance would eliminate the problem. Curses and spells—magics in general—did not last long after the caster died, and could not be revived if there was no one in the family or who knew about it to do so.

His spine straightened.

Was the caster of Jaskier’s affliction still alive?

Almost immediately, he dismissed the idea. Too hard to track down the singular person, most likely… though he could table the thought for a later time. A possible solution, if Emmanuel ever came to trust him.

“I don’t think this one is like that,” Jaskier finally said.

Emmanuel snorted, and the softness, the pain, in his voice was gone, replaced by acerbic venom. “Oh? What makes you think so? He appears, and fire starts at the saloon. Every time you latch onto another traveler, we end up nearly losing our heads, or our money, or our mounts. What happened that time ago has made it difficult for you—”

“Yes, yes, all of that,” Jaskier said impatiently. “But… I _know_ this man, somehow. I may be vexed with him, but I also trust him.”

“You said that of others—”

“ _One_ other—”

“And he left us to die on a mountain.”

“We had enough supplies to get down. How was he to know that a horse would be lamed on the return journey down?”

“ _Jasper_.”

Again, silence, and Geralt fought not to twitch or turn around, letting Roach pick her way towards the smudge on the horizon that grew more and more prominent as the sun began to sink in the sky.

Finally, Emmanuel let out a sigh. “You would trust a rattlesnake, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d trust that it didn’t want to hurt me until I hurt it,” Jaskier responded almost immediately.

Geralt bit back the automatic click of his tongue; Jaskier’s wit was still as sharp, and pointed, and stupid, as ever it seemed.

Emmanuel, at least, appeared to shame the same level of exasperation because he let out a frustrated sigh. “I will do my best to keep my tongue still around him, but you best believe that I am waiting. His hands are soaked in blood, and if the stories are true, it may be _lifetimes_ worth of blood. There is no coming back from that, no way to rebalance one’s self when one is so deliberately determined to walk out of step with the world.”

“He noticed the fire. He is traveling the same direction as us. He even has a horse.”

“ _Most travelers have a horse, Jasper_ —”

“I’m simply saying that what we’re waiting for might be him. You wouldn’t know, and if you drive him off, how will we ever know?”

Emmanuel grumbled under his breath, too rough and quick for Geralt to pick it up, and Jaskier laughed again, light and high, before another silence—more comfortable and companionable—reined.

Geralt fought the desire to turn, and instead cleared his throat. “There, ahead. Carthage, before the mountains. We can stock supplies there and cross through a pass.”

“We could also simply continue traveling south until we can travel around them,” Emmanuel immediately replied.

Geralt craned his head back finally, giving in to both his urge and his impulse to give Emmanuel the driest stare he could muster. “We could,” he agreed genially. “I assumed you made your money traveling the trails with the cattle trains. That one you were with is one of the last ones on the road. If you want to make your money, you need to get back to Fort Concho.”

After a long, measured look, Emmanuel sighed. “At least you know your trails.”

Geralt strove not to roll his eyes too obviously as he turned straight ahead. The way the sun was, they might not stop the night at the town—there was still a good chunk of the day left to ride.

At the edge of the town, however, even as Geralt was trying to calculate whether he could actively afford to at least get some oats or beans for Roach, Jaskier spurned his horse a bit further and wheeled about.

“You two stay put. You know the problems we had last time, Emmanuel—don’t even make that face at me. And Geralt… well. Let’s just say you and Emmanuel have to work this out since you’re apparently planning on traveling with us for a while.”

Before either Emmanuel or Geralt could voice their dislike for the idea, Jaskier turned his horse and made his way into town.

Geralt turned to eye Emmanuel. “Problems?”

“Just because the Union came doesn’t mean the Union was well-liked,” Emmanuel spat, and then he sighed. “Might as well make a camp, then, and find some level of shade. There’s a few scraggly ones over there.”

Well. Geralt had been wanting time to press Emmanuel on what had happened previously.

He let Roach follow at her own pace, trying to figure out how he was going to approach this. He needed to know all the specifics, all the small details. This wasn’t his home ground, and there were too many unknown variants in this new continent that any small scrap of knowledge was necessary for him to be effective. At the same time, he needed to come off trustworthy, at least a little, for Emmanuel to work with him.

“I can smell your brain smoking from here,” Emmanuel grunted. “Stop thinking so loudly.”

“I would like there to be some level of peace between you and I,” Geralt said slowly. “I’m just not sure how to bring that about.”

“You can’t,” Emmanuel said simply. “You’re a witcher. You can’t fix problems in moments. It takes time to build anything. Balance is not something that happens once—it’s a continuous process.”

Geralt fought back the words that hit against the back of his teeth, and instead considered. For Emmanuel to be this well-spoken, this well-learned, he had to have had learned parents or had been in a plantation house, not the field. But with that body type, it was unlikely that he had not been made use of in the field…

“What are you thinking, just now?” Emmanuel asked, dismounting from his horse and reaching for his water to fill the water sack for his horse.

Biting his lip, Geralt admitted, “I was… curious. You are far more well-spoken and well-mannered than many other cowboys I have met along the trail.”

Emmanuel barked out a laugh. “And you are more diplomatic and well-mannered than I expected as well.” His eyes hard, he turned to give Geralt a gimlet stare. “I earned my manners, and my speech, the hard way. You can trick almost any Union soldier into better treatment by aping their speech and their airs. You can get better food, and more scraps, if you can put on a show for those that jeer at your position in life. No, Geralt, you are not wondering that.”

Heaving a sigh, Geralt swung off of Roach and patted her flank. “I was, at that, though perhaps not in kind terms. I am sorry, for that. It was ill of me to think so, or even voice those thoughts. I have no excuse for them.”

For a long moment, Emmanuel held his gaze, and Geralt fought not to squirm or flinch under the heavy weight of it. Finally, either Emmanuel was tired of asking Geralt to prove himself—unlikely—or Emmanuel judged that this, at least, was not something he wanted to focus on, because he instead said, “How much of what I said you heard?”

That made Geralt start, and then he grimaced. “Most of it. To the point where I’m sure I know what type of witcher you ran into, even if I do not know their name.”

“That you know such evil exists—”

“I am sorry for what happened to you and yours,” Geralt interjected. “I could not change it, but it makes my heart weary to hear it. But it also lends to a possible solution—if I find the magic user that did this magic to Jas—to Jasper, would it end? Would he remember, and be free of what haunts him?”

“You expect me to have all the answers, _asasen chase_?” Emmanuel grumbled, pouring water into the sack for his horse and then slipping it onto her face.

Geralt gave him an exasperated look. “I expect you to have the clues I need to help fix this,” he responded. “What practitioner did this? Are you able to remove it? Your spell last night—”

“My _prayer_ ,” Emmanuel corrected shortly.

Geralt nodded and amended his words. “Your prayer last night, was it to end this? Why do you think it has not ended before?”

“Because part of the problem is that it was a curse upon _me_. It was flung at me, from a… I do not know. Someone who plays at the _vodoun_ , but has no real connection to the _lwa_. Or, at the very least, is possessed and enslaved by a darker _lwa_. Something was not right in the curse, and it hit Jasper, and Jasper—well. He died.”

Geralt felt all the muscles in his body freeze. “Pardon?” he said faintly.

That, at least, seemed to ring true for Emmanuel, because his voice became gentler, kinder. “He… died. His heart stopped, and his breath disappeared. I kneeled over his body, bleeding around him, and opened my heart to the _lwa_. I begged for a stay, for time to save him, and he suddenly gasped and sat up. I use my blood nightly to protect him, and pray that he sleeps safely and wakes again in the day. He stood between me and my attacker, so the least I can do is figure out how to take the curse off of him.”

“And… finding the person who did this?” Geralt hazarded.

Emmanuel shrugged. “He’s dead. There should be no reason for the curse to linger still, unless it’s death-fueled—but he was not a true practitioner. No, something in Jasper’s person or spirit calls to the curse, either because of like magic or because of shared ancestry. When Jasper woke up, and told me his name, the curse became stronger, wrapping around his throat like a snake. Any discussions of the past, of his home, of anything… we agreed, after much discussion and sideways conversations, that I would remove his memories, who he was, and leave him a new name and fabricated lives. The truth sits in the medallion around his neck… along with the curse. And it reappears, randomly. Normally, when he remembers something about himself, or is reminded of something. The curse reacts and things happen… like fires, like a poisoned well, like a horse spooking at the wrong moment…”

Magic… magic didn’t work like that. The spellcaster dead should have ended the curse. Magic _could_ have particular affinities—Yennefer’s magic had worked like a charm against Geralt, over and over again, but magic from, say, a _bruja_ or druid was much easier to fight off and undo.

He needed more details. The wording of the curse, or the name of the person who had done it. What exactly they had attacked Emmanuel for, or how Jaskier had managed to divert the curse—particularly since curses were not, in fact, things that missed their targets. There wasn’t any stepping in front of a curse, or targeted magic. If magic was thrown out as a concussive blast, that might have changed things, because you could block or defend from that…

“We may,” Geralt said heavily, “have to give him back his memories.”

Emmanuel whirled from where he was unloading his horse. “It will kill him!”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Geralt spread his hands. “But not immediately. And you told me what you know, but nothing I’ve ever heard of should be able to do what you said. Any clues he could offer are invaluable, especially since he has been around long enough to recognize certain patterns and magics. It’s the only way I can think of to give us more information.”

“And if it doesn’t work? What more do you need to know?”

Geralt shrugged uselessly. “I don’t know what I don’t know. Do you have a name, and background knowledge of the person? Do you know why Jaskier happened to be there, at that time? Did Jaskier have any nonhuman features, or any aura about him when it happened? How was the magic or curse formed—like a ball, like a ribbon, like a twisting strand? Like shadows? What were the exact words used when the magic was cast? And even with all the answers to these questions, I am not familiar with all variants of magic. I can protect myself, but identifying past magics based on vague descriptions? I am hoping to find someone used to rituals and magic who can aid there.”

Emmanuel squatted down and gnawed on his lip, staring hard at the dirt. “I had—I had stopped some men from doing… well. I had stopped some men. There were four of them; all pale, but only one with blond, blond hair. Almost white, but not quite. Dirty, all of them, but only two had the accents of Louisiana. One sounded like a Yankee, the other more like a mountain man.” He frowned and reached out hesitantly, drawing lines in the dirt. “I was—they beat me, severely. I was already dying, I feel. And one man, he reached back and hissed—something. A language I did not speak, did not know.”

“Which man?” Geralt asked quietly, bending down to watch as Emmanuel tentatively drew a small figure, horizontal, and four others, vertical.

Slowly, Emmanuel shook his head. “I do not know. I could not tell you. The language was not familiar, and the accent… maybe not the Louisiana men. Ah kin tells yuh a Nawlins man jest frim is speakin like. Wasn’t them.”

Mountain men—Appalachian, more likely than others, but also possibly a more western area. Yankee—that was broad. So many, that spoke and had similar speech patterns to British English, even now, almost a hundred years past their independence.

“Jasper… he showed up at the mouth of the alleyway, here.” Emmanuel poked his finger into the dirt, separate from where everyone else was. “I don’t remember his words—something about how brave they were, or some such rot. Almost singing, he was, that I remember.”

Jaskier was a vila, and vila by their nature were of a darker type of magic, mind manipulation and coercion. Was that why death magic had been attracted to Jaskier?

“The men turned—or at the very least, paused—and words were exchanged. I do not know what, or what exactly was said, but suddenly there was Jaskier, kneeling down in front of me, that wolf charm hanging from his throat and one hand on my back.”

Vila… could heal, though not well. Their magic worked best on animals and the earth, but Jaskier had put hands on Geralt before, mortal wounds that would have otherwise ended Geralt ere the night was over, and Geralt had felt health return to his body. Healing? But Jaskier was too smart to turn his back on attackers. He would not have done so unless he believed himself safe.

“They shouted, and Jasper jumped up, a sword appearing from… somewhere. And then he collapsed, and the men were dead or gone. I dragged myself to his body, and I felt more whole, but his heart did not beat in his chest, and his breath did not touch the back of my hand. I placed my hand on his chest and chanted my prayer, and begged that my savior be returned.”

Very, very quietly, Geralt said softly, “That does not sound like someone tried to curse you, or him, with death. That sounds like a natural death.”

Emmanuel stared at him, something like horror in his face—but then it changed, and he shook his head roughly. “I did not pull a spirit back into a dead and decaying body. I know I did not. If I had, these past years the body would fall apart, degrade. The spirit would lose its connection and balance in this world, and become mindless, empty. Jasper still has his personality—enough so that you recognized him, did you not? You knew it was him from his speech and his mannerisms. You loved him, once. Or still.”

“Still,” Geralt murmured, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he studied the crude drawing and pondered the words before him. There was something missing. Why would four random men be ready and primed to cast a spell on a seemingly random African who decided to stop their fun? More likely it was planned. But was it planned for Emmanuel… or for Jaskier?

“There is… there is a resource. Perhaps. If it is still available,” Geralt finally said, standing up and rolling his shoulders. “Perhaps.”

“We went, you know. We went to a fortuneteller, looking for some clues,” Emmanuel said, reluctance in his tone and shoulders.

Geralt looked over at Emmanuel. From experience, fortunetellers were either just lucky, or they caused the very fortunes they were telling; few had the true Gift.

“She told us that our solution would be on the trails, riding on a horse, bringing war. Jasper has taken that to mean inviting _everyone_ to travel with us.”

Geralt tried not to let his lips twitch into a smile, because _of course_ Jaskier would do that. He was obviously not successful, as Emmanuel snorted. “Yes, you see my problem.”

“Can you trust that I am here to help?” Geralt ventured.

Blowing out a sigh, Emmanuel turned to look at the tiny, three-building town. “I can trust that you care about him. But I have never met a witcher that has not tried to solve the problem the fastest and bloodiest way yet. When people pay you to kill a problem, it means that you rarely look at it from the side of the perceived monster.”

Geralt could not stop the laugh that barked from his throat, though he waved off Emmanuel’s questioning looks.

\- - -

“It feels like the mountain is watching us,” Jaskier whispered.

“You have too fanciful of an imagination,” Emmanuel rumbled. “Just get the meat out and let’s warm it on the fire.”

But he watched the encroaching shadows, as well. In the mountains, there was no gradual, slow loss of light, as twilight swept over like a blanket pulled over the land. Instead, as the sun dropped behind the mountain, shadows leapt out and darkened all the corners, well before true dark had come, creating a deeper illusion of danger and hidden corners.

Geralt kept his ears peeled; he was not about to be caught unawares, but he knew this mountain trail, and he knew it was the quickest way across the mountain range, and then it would be, more or less, a straight southwest shot to the fort. If they did not come upon a resource to help them before then.

He didn’t have much to bargain with, but he hoped what he had, and their situation, would be enough.

A soft step on stone, and Geralt turned to look where he knew someone was standing in the dark, though he didn’t call out yet, just focused his eyes on the slight silhouette there.

Which, of course, turned out to be the distraction, as Jaskier yelped and Emmanuel swore, long and colorful.

Geralt turned quickly back to the fire to see three of the Dine standing there, one with a gun and two others with their bows and arrow trained on the two of them by the fire. He began to step forward when movement at his side brought him short.

“I told you,” Billy muttered in his tongue, “that we should not meet again.”

Geralt might have learned enough to understand the tongue, and speak it—badly—but he spoke in English for the benefit of Jaskier and Emmanuel. “I know, and I apologize for having to return. But I have a request of you.”

Billy sneered, mouth twisted in disgust. “Always asking for things from the Dine. What do you have to offer, hmm? False words and empty promises?”

“My friend there is ill, harmed in spirit from something dark. I have no magical skill, no connection to the spirits in any way. My other companion has some skill, but he is running out of ideas.”

Billy looked him up and down. It had only been perhaps half a year since Geralt had stumbled upon this ‘rogue’ group of Dine warriors in the mountains—they had defied the treaty forced upon them by the government to travel to the reservation, and lived here in the wild. When Geralt had first come, they had nearly killed him, and he paid for his life by agreeing to obey the words they gave him and complete the tasks they set before him. Billy had told him, on the day of his leaving, that should they meet again in the mountains it would spell the end of the free Dine—for if one white man could find the same group twice, the world had shrunk too much for the Dine to avoid the United States army for long.

And now, here he was again—but Billy, and Billy’s father, were the only magic users he both knew and trusted on this new continent. He knew of no one else that could offer help.

With a heavy sigh, Billy looked over at the three warriors, and said tiredly, “Go, tell my father we have… more guests.”

“Has the army come?” Geralt asked softly in Dine Bizaad. He butchered it horribly, he knew, but he was willing to bet that Emmanuel and Jaskier could not speak the language.

“We have seen… worrisome signs. You came bearing death, and evil. From the white man’s land, not from here. This magic is foreign.”

Geralt nodded, stepping a little closer to Jaskier. “He needs cleansing of it, somehow. I do not know what worked this magic upon him, and I am out of ideas. He will die of it, soon.”

“Tchh,” Billy grunted, moving over to Jaskier and crouching down in front of the frozen man, looking at him speculatively.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, voice wavering.

Geralt waved a hand. “It should be fine. They might be able to help.”

Emmanuel narrowed his eyes at Geralt. “ _This_ was your resource? You could not think to tell us about it ahead of time?”

“Very bad at saying things, isn’t he?” Billy said in English, and Geralt bit his tongue.

“The absolute worst,” Jaskier replied faintly.

Billy narrowed his eyes, and then nodded firmly. “This man, he is not fully human. Is he? Some creature.”

Emmanuel’s head whipped around to stare at Jaskier, who looked confused and nervous. Taking pity on the amnesiac and the man who had not known Jaskier _before_ he became an amnesiac, Geralt spoke up. “He is not. He has some human blood, but he is almost pure vila.”

“Vila?” Jaskier parroted, looking paler and paler as the seconds passed.

Billy squinted at Geralt, then back at Jaskier. “Well. Whatever he may be, he is in a fight with someone. They have cursed him to die, but this one’s magic—” he jerked his chin at Emmanuel’s shocked form—“is staying the curse. Normally, I’d say there was nothing to be done. But—this man wears a symbol around his throat, and this symbol is made of silver, which can weaken magic.”

Geralt shouldn’t take pleasure in the facts that Jaskier kept the token he’d given him, and that it had saved Jaskier’s life, however minutely. Pushing those thoughts away, he approached and did his best not to sniff too obviously, like a beast, at Jaskier’s head, trying to pick up whatever Billy had noticed. “Another of his kind?”

“This is not spiritual magic, that one human would cast on another. This is rooted in something much… earthier. Heavier. It has that quality, that comes from a creature that doesn’t share human lifespans or human spirits.”

Emmanuel blinked at Billy, and then turned to look at Jaskier. “You’re… not human?” he asked softly.

Jaskier’s cheeks flushed, and he spread his hands helplessly. “How am I supposed to know?” he demanded, chest heaving.

Both Billy and Emmanuel frowned at that, and Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s back. “Jasper?” he asked softly. “Are you—”

But Jaskier’s breath was coming in stuttering gasps, and his heart beat irregularly against Geralt’s hand. Panicked, Geralt looked up at the other two. “He’s—something’s wrong!”

“Never heard of ignorance being a protection against magic, but you see new things every day, I see,” Billy grumbled, even as he moved quickly to press his hand against Jaskier’s forehead, closing his eyes as if searching.

“I can reinforce the prayer,” Emmanuel offered worriedly.

“Ignorance has always been a strong protector against cast magics,” Geralt argued, even as he curled his body against Jaskier’s and did his best to _will_ Jaskier into being better.

Billy sighed and shook his head. “Well, sitting here fluttering over him like a dove over eggs is not going to make things better. Give him to me, and I will take him to my father.”

It was harder than it should be, to release Jaskier into Billy’s care, and clearly Emmanuel felt the same. When they both stood to follow Billy, they realized the other was not willing to be left behind, and it was a tense few moments before Geralt conceded that it would be easier for him to follow their trail than Emmanuel. So Emmanuel grabbed his pack and trailed after Billy, while Geralt doused their fire and packed up their gear onto their horses.

This was all far too similar to another time when his carelessness had led to harm coming to Jaskier—even close to when his words had cut Jaskier deep, had ended their friendship and connection for almost ten years before Geralt had stumbled upon Jaskier again.

Had Geralt ever directly apologized? Billy had been right to say that he was terrible at communication, and traveling in the wilderness alone hadn’t eased his tongue any.

Roach snorted at him, and he shot an irritated look her way. Why was it easier to talk to his horse than it was people?

…Because people were more complicated than anything he had ever learned, animals or monsters. People could be evil, or good, and they rarely understood him or his intentions. For all that Jaskier had been upset Emmanuel hadn’t wanted to give Geralt a chance, that was far easier to understand for Geralt than… well, than any other reaction he had ever received. Jaskier had been an outlier, someone who had never flinched from either Geralt’s gruff exterior or the bloodier aspects of his job—because sometimes, yes, the only solution was killing the problem. Not always, but often enough that Geralt regretted it, and didn’t feel the urge to argue with Emmanuel’s assessment of witchers.

“Shouldn’t leave me on my own in the night,” he grunted, grabbing the reins of Jaskier and Emmanuel’s horses, tying them to either side of Roach’s saddle. “I get… philosophical.”

Roach huffed.

Ignoring the judgmental sound, Geralt mounted up and led the other two horses at an easy walk into the darkness. Following the trail of someone in the dark was normally hard, and he could have used a potion to enhance his eyesight so that he could see as well as if it were broad daylight…

…but there was no mistaking Jaskier’s scent, no confusing that with anything else. Walking the horses meant less chance of them twisting an ankle or harming themselves, so he took the time to try and calm his racing heart. Hearing Jaskier in distress, after finally finding him after so long…

Well. It wasn’t conducive to his stoic image, to say the least.

It didn’t take him long to follow the trail—the group of Dine that lived here was small, barely more than a few young warriors too angry to take the poisoned deal of the United States government, and a few older warriors too attached to their life to move to the reservation. Billy’s father was a medicine man, and he was kneeling besides Jaskier’s prone form, Emmanuel hovering beside him.

“Took you long enough,” Billy muttered as Geralt tied off the horses and came over.

“Is he…” Geralt trailed off, unable to think or say what he feared.

Billy looked at him and sighed. “Yes, outsider, he yet lives,” he answered in Dine Bizaad. “My father has confirmed—one of his own kind wished him harm. The curse was bought for, or created, but the intent was of his own magics, which is why it is tied up with his identity and his being.”

“Is there a cure?” Geralt asked.

Billy shrugged. “We will purify him, as best as we can. Will it work? Our rituals sometimes can touch upon another magic, sometimes cannot. It remains to be seen. But we will do this quickly, and we will leave this area. You bring with you bad omens, and dark tidings, especially with this death curse.”

“If there is anything at all that I can do,” Geralt said, clumsily using the language he had done his best to learn, “name it. It will be yours if it is in my power.”

For a long, serious moment, Billy stared him down, and then he laughed. “You can barely speak our language, and cannot remember our names. You came to us unknowing, and what you could offer is nothing we cannot do for ourselves. No, we do this because this man does not deserve this death, and if there comes a time when you could actually help… well. We’ll know we can call on you.”

“Anytime,” Geralt agreed immediately. “ _Anytime_.”

Billy huffed and slapped Geralt on the back. “My father will do his best. He will take your friend and purify him if it is possible.”

Emmanuel saw Geralt and came over immediately. “He’s not human?”

How to answer that in a way that clearly wouldn’t upset Emmanuel? Geralt licked his lips, and then slowly shook his head. “No, he is not. His mother was a vila, and his sire was descended from vila. He has the ability to convince or manipulate people with his voice, if he so chooses. Does that matter?”

“I… I don’t know,” Emmanuel murmured. “There are many creatures in this world, that I know, and that’s why your whole… people exist. But you did not kill him.”

“I try not to kill my friends,” Geralt said mildly.

Emmanuel gave him an unimpressed stare. “You know what I mean.”

Geralt sighed and moved to sit down around the nearest fire that looked like it had space for him and Emmanuel to rest. “I do know what you mean. Witchers… we were created in a world gone past, when humankind was still carving out their space in the world and had to contend with bigger, fiercer predators than themselves. We were taught to protect humanity at any cost. If that meant killing what would otherwise not be a threat…”

For the space of a few minutes, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire. Then Emmanuel sighed. “I still do not like your kind. You were created, and therefore out of step with the world. You aren’t… you aren’t _balanced_. But maybe…”

Geralt could take maybes.

\- - -

Billy’s father—his name translated to Tall Tree, according to Billy, but since he had introduced himself to Geralt as Joseph, that’s what Geralt called him—spat to the side and jerked his chin at Jaskier, huddled by a fire. “Did what I could,” he said, English sitting awkward on his tongue. “Best case. The rest—”

“Thank you. _Thank you_ ,” Geralt said, bowing his head.

Joseph snorted. “Explains enough. Take him, and your horses, and leave.”

“It is good,” Geralt murmured, and when Joseph huffed, hiding the slight curl at the corner of his mouth, he turned back to where Emmanuel had started helping Jaskier to his feet.

“Is it fixed?” Emmanuel asked as Geralt approached.

Geralt shrugged. “They said they did their best. How do you feel—Jasper?”

Jaskier looked strung out, worn, but also like he was ready to fall asleep where he stood. “I don’t know, Geralt, I guess I’ll figure out when he find the thrice-damned vila that did this.”

“Do you… remember?” Geralt asked awkwardly.

Jaskier lifted his head and met Geralt’s eyes with surprising intensity. “I remember telling you that I would return. I remember returning, and finding no trace of you anywhere. I remember finding Eskel’s trail, and traveling through half of Russia and China searching for you.”

Geralt winced, shoulders stiff and tight.

Then Jaskier’s voice softened. “I remember seeing you in that saloon and wondering why I wanted to reach out and punch you in the face. And then kiss you.”

Emmanuel coughed and looked away.

Hope beat hard in Geralt’s heart, and he looked up, almost unable to dare. But it was there, that recognition, that _light_ , that he remembered so clearly.

Tension bled from his shoulders, and he could have very nearly collapsed. “They removed the curse,” he said hoarsely. “It worked.”

“Technically,” Jaskier muttered. “Apparently, it will circle back if we don’t find the caster and either get them to stop it or…”

“Something more permanent,” Emmanuel said grimly.

Jaskier turned to Emmanuel, warmth and softness in his face as he put his hand on Emmanuel’s arm. “You… you protected me, when I was alone. You took care of me.”

“You saved me first,” Emmanuel said firmly. “It was the least I could do.”

“Still,” Jaskier murmured. “Would you like an introduction, or reference? I know you are unlikely to return to New Orleans now, but I think you did not do too badly on the trail, with the other cowboys. You were a great cattle boss.”

Quietly, Geralt turned and left towards Roach, feeling the familiar sadness clog his throat. Jaskier had—people, had friends, had a lightness and life about him that Geralt would only stifle. There was no point in hanging around and watching Jaskier thank Emmanuel, or Emmanuel make plans with Jaskier—

Something heavy and hard hit the back of his head, and Roach whickered.

He whirled around, and nearly got another rock in his nose. He caught it and glowered. “What are you doing, Jaskier?” he demanded.

“If you disappear so help me I will storm into the nearest town and call every single tough I can find whoresons until one of them beats me up!” Jaskier snapped.

“What—”

“Don’t you _dare_ go anywhere!”

Bemused, Geralt stood, stunned, as Jaskier continued talking to Emmanuel before stomping over to Geralt’s side.

“I just got you back, you fat lummox! Melitele’s _tits_ , Geralt, you’d think you’d have the patience to wait a heartbeat—”

“You’re—you’re going with Emmanuel. Giving him a recommendation, and finding that vila—”

“I know what sow cursed me, and if you think for one minute that I would go and track her down without you—”

Ah. That made sense, that Jaskier would need a witcher when…

Jaskier slapped him across the face.

Geralt jerked back, eyes wide, and then made a startled yelp he would deny to the end of his days had ever come from his throat when Jaskier grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged him down into a fierce, biting kiss.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Jaskier snarled, “and maybe you forgot that—it _has_ been almost five hundred years—but I have you now, and I’m not letting go again, even if you’re a pigheaded, emotionally-stunted hulk!”

For the span of a single heartbeat, all Geralt could do was stare, shocked and silenced. But when Jaskier’s face began to fall, when doubt began to creep in, Geralt shook himself and then pulled Jaskier tight against his chest.

“How I missed you, my bard,” he croaked hoarsely.

“Not as much as I have missed you,” Jaskier replied holding back just as tight. “My witcher.”

Jaskier’s.

Geralt’s life did not look so dismal, anymore.


End file.
